Page 10 of Hidden with a Rockstar
“Your honour,” she says in a mock-serious voice, “I present exhibit A: the aroma of bad gut health.”
"This is premeditated," I respond. "The passenger made a conscious choice to eat beans with dragon fruit, knowing full well what atmospheric conditions he'd create."
"We have expert testimony from the row 14 witnesses suggests intent to harm."
"My nose is burning and my head is spinning."
"And what are the sentencing recommendations?"
“An immediate removal to a facility where scientists could study how one human body manufactures that scent.”
“Why the hell would anyone study that?” She snorts.
I nudge her. “What’s the verdict?”
“Oh right, sorry.” She clears her throat. “The verdict is guilty on all counts.”
We’re both laughing, and then the laughing thins out but we’re still looking at each other. My face goes hot. She clears her throat. I look at the seat-back tray. She looks out the black window.
Midway through the flight, I start feeling warm. Then cold. Then warm again. My eyes feel grainy. My throat stops cooperating, and the ache behind my temples settles in. I pull my hoodie tighter and press my forehead against the seat rest.
"You okay?" Her voice. “You don’t seem very well.”
"Fine. Just tired. Long night with the performance."
“Here, you can have the arm rest.”
I snort. “I don’t need it anymore.”
"But you look terrible."
"Thank you."
"It's not an insult. You look really sick."
"I'm fine. Just need sleep."
But when we land, I'm not fine. My legs don't believe in standing. The terminal is too bright. I sit down at the gate because the alternative is continuing to walk, and I'm not confident my knees will support me.
I close my eyes. The seat is hard. I think about the studio, the drive, the B&B, the recording session that starts in six hours. Then I’m not thinking because I’m dozing off.
"Hey." Her voice is close. "You okay?"
I open my eyes. She's crouched in front of me with a water bottle.
"I'm alright. Just need to sleep it off."
“I don’t think you can sleep here."
“I’ll be okay, I’ll just take a nap and go to the studio.”
"Where's that?"
I pull up the address on my phone and show her. Two hours north. A beautiful facility in the middle of nowhere with a farmhouse B&B nearby.
"Oh no, that’s ages away. My apartment is twenty minutes from here," she says. "Maybe come sleep it off on my couch and go to the studio when you can stand."
"I can stand up."
